


Grief

by Valmouth



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hate Sex, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rough Sex, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:51:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Valmouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wizard’s ex, dangerous in his grief and his anger, taking what he thinks is his pound of flesh and maybe it is. Maybe Marcone owes something to the man. Doesn’t know. Can’t think clearly enough to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grief

**Author's Note:**

> From and for the Dresden Kink Meme : http://scribe-protra.dreamwidth.org/306.html?thread=527410#cmt527410
> 
> I'm too late to fill the prompt but couldn't resist writing for it anyway.

Technically speaking, they’re the same age.

Marcone comes to this realisation with Thomas Raith balls deep inside him, his eyes half-closed and breath forced out on every half-sobbing exhalation.

The wizard’s ex is... well. The man is attractive.

Marcone doesn’t tend to have personal responses to attractive people these days. Hasn’t for a long time. Not since he grew intimately conversant with pimps and prostitutes and high class call girls. His sex life has all but died since he built his office at the top of Executive Priority, and let himself be duped into a relationship of convenience that he thought he could control.

He couldn’t control it. He suspects Helen of betrayal. He doesn’t know when or how bad or how dangerous but he suspects. Not knowing is what drives his paranoia.

He doesn’t know what to do when he’s uncertain.

So, so long since he’s been uncertain.

Thomas reaches down a hand to touch a particularly vivid scar and he thrashes in responses. Fight or flight or fuck responses mingling uselessly because he’s asked for this.

Thomas told him he’d asked for it.

Maybe he did. He doesn’t remember.

Remembers Nick and the offer of the Denarius. Remembers the torture and Ivy’s enormous eyes while they cut into him, fucked into him, exposed her to adult brutalities that were too far beyond what a child should have seen.

And he hadn’t been helpless then, because she’d been there. Someone to protect. Someone to focus on.

Here there is nothing to focus on but himself.

Or his tormentor. Partner. Lover.

Eyes half-closed and the slope of the face is oddly like Dresden. The upper lip curling back with effort. The jaw, the line of the nose, the stretch of the neck. A little too short. Hair too dark. And eyes, oh god, a demon’s eyes flashing silver.

Silver.

White Court vampire.

The hand stroking the scar digs nails into the thick, ugly line of white along his hip and he growls. Can’t get his breathe. Thomas was careful going in but he isn’t being careful now and the burn is almost far more than the pleasure.

Marcone grits his teeth and hisses and he knows his eyes are wild. His back and the backs of his thighs are screaming at the forced angle and his wrists are raw beneath the rope but it’s important. Focus, focus. Think.

White court vampire.

The wizard’s ex, dangerous in his grief and his anger, taking what he thinks is his pound of flesh and maybe it is. Maybe Marcone owes something to the man. Doesn’t know. Can’t think clearly enough to remember.

So many people he owes. The little police woman. How many cases has he fucked up for the police? How many murders has he committed? Drugs, sex and death – a legacy of ordered destruction. His lies. His half-truths. His schemes and manipulation. People as puppets.

And here he is, being treated like an object.

He’s too old to be the one on the bottom. Too old to be put on his back with any semblance of grace and ridden like a victim. He’s just too old, and too tired, and it hurts too much these days.

But, then again, White Court vampire. Maybe Thomas is older. Maybe he’s older than everybody else in the wizard’s circle, saving some of the crusty ancient mentors who left Dresden to struggle against certain death alone for so many years of his life. Where were they when Chicago almost fell to the demons? Where were they when innocents were dying?

Where are they now?

Not hoisting the vampire away. Not comforting a grieving ex-lover. Not protecting the city that is Dresden’s legacy.

Thomas’s rhythm snaps faster and Marcone jerks, eyes wide and glazed and mouth open in a soundless scream because he hadn’t thought his body was capable of feeling more, taking more, giving more. He’s almost at breaking point and the vampire eyes are still silver even as he leans over and licks a broad sweep up the side of his neck.

Silver eyes in the darkness. Beautiful, beautiful eyes. Demonic and remote and inhuman. Are these the eyes the wizard saw? Was this what Dresden felt? What he came home to? What he ended?

The thought jangles beneath his skin but it doesn’t mean much now. Not now. With the wizard dead. Blood on Thomas’s boat and maybe the vampire killed him. Maybe there was... maybe there was a reason. Reason. Some kind of rationale. Something that would make sense but no. No. The vampire blames him.

This is about blame.

Thomas blames him and is taking his pound of flesh. Marcone is going to pay and pay until he has nothing left.

His innocence is ironic but he is innocent and he is dying. Can feel himself dying even as his body arches into each thrust and demands more. Now. Please. Anything.

He’s almost begging. Wordlessly, soundlessly, because some part of his reality at the back of his brain is screaming beneath the pain and the torment but he is Gentleman Johnny Marcone, Baron Marcone, Freeholding Lord, he isn’t allowed to scream for this to end. He endures.

He always has, always did.

Won’t much longer.

Can’t. Can’t last.

He does scream when he comes because as much as he pours out, he can feel being sucked out and even through the mind-breaking pleasure, he can feel the pain. Feel the fear. Helpless beneath it. His own body turned against him. His own need.

And his eyes are half-closed beneath a man who looks a little like Dresden, who sneers and spits in his face even as he stays hard inside him. Keeps hammering at him and doesn’t break until Marcone claws at the rope and the headboard and tears three fingernails to the bloody cuticle.

Then and only then does Thomas stop and look down. Blinks flaming predator’s eyes. Takes stock.

Marcone’s toes are curling and then spreading, feet flexing, calves cramping and thighs sliding numbly off the vampire’s shoulders. His eyes are almost completely black, thin rings of dirty green barely visible with the light and the lust. Skin sweat-slick, cold grey beneath the sex-warmth and boater’s tan.

 Thomas eases out, gently. So gently.

Marcone makes some kind of sound at the back of his throat. Like tearing. Like breaking. Barely aware except of emptiness.

Gently Thomas undoes the rope knot.

“It wasn’t me,” Marcone says. His voice is rough, hoarse. Words crack and break in the middle.

Thomas says nothing. And then turns him over and eases back in.

Barely any resistance at all except that Marcone groans and tries to get away.

A large hand clamps down with feral strength on the back of his fragile neck and he goes still immediately. Knows how easy it is to break a neck. And how breaking his neck might not end in death.

He has a nightmare of paralysis. Of being Amanda, his little girl, trapped in his own body on a bed and watching helplessly while his world narrows down to a single room, a schedule. Businesslike nurses to hold bedpans and scrub down unresponsive decaying flesh.

Two seconds of the nightmare and he is gasping, barely able to think straight beneath the weight of that hand and the heat of that cock. Caught between the two. Helpless between the two.

His fault, he thinks. He sent Hendricks away. Gard is away. His only bodyguard a boy barely capable of watching his own back never mind someone else’s.

He wonders if that boy is dead, outside the door to this hell.

Thomas scrapes his nails down the barely faded whip scars on his back and then his hand descends.

The spank is pistol-shot loud and he’s flexing and jerking, breathe exploding out of his lungs in shock.

The blows fall hard and fast and vampires are stronger than humans. Thomas isn’t holding back. Pinning his hips and holding his neck and raining blows down on his ass and his flanks and still somehow staying inside him and Marcone feels himself start to unravel again. Clutches desperately and tries to endure but there is no hope here.

Nothing.

His traitorous body reacts again – is forced to react again – and when Thomas starts thrusting again he can only arch back and pray that it will end soon. Oblivion of one kind or another is preferable.

“I bet you’re thinking of him,” Thomas says brutally.

Tragically, for once Marcone wasn’t.  


End file.
